Under Black Ink
movingfinger
Posts: 117
just a little meta-fiction i have been dabbling with, still needs a lot of work, especially in the cohesiveness department
Under Black Ink
The reader
The story begins with the main character walking through a door. The narrator, third person omniscient—the voice of a man (maybe because you are sexist)—begins to narrate. You find through him that this man has been depressed, that his name is Joe. At first the name Joe seems weak, lazy almost. The narrator explains that this man is a Joe. You think he could have been a Charlie or Bob as well. He sits down and begins to drink a cup of coffee. You think Joe. His wife enters the room. The author spends several paragraphs describing her features. You close your eyes, the image of your sixth grade teacher, enters your mind. She begins to talk to Joe; the narrator explains that she is always happy, quite the opposite of Joe (and your sixth grade teacher). She begins to make breakfast.
You think about skipping this story and moving on to the next one, you are familiar with the author and are interested with what his story is about. The current author’s style is loose; he often dips into long winded descriptions trying to bring more layers to his flat story. It is only the first page and you are already becoming bored of reading.
The character
Joe feels trapped on the page; ever since he was brought to life through the coupling of ink and paper, he has felt that he has no control over his destiny. He looks at his wife and feels love, back space, feels loathing. Every sentence that passes changes him, when one is erased he feels the hole it leaves. He remembers the other settings, the other beginnings. At one point he was a bum on a street corner who was taken in by a young communist named Timour. In some ways he feels like every Joe on paper. When the author finishes for the day and turns out the light in the study Joe dreams about the other stories, when being Joe still felt important. He, for the most part, has stayed the same; he is and always will be a Joe. He thinks of his wife, the woman he is forced to love and lie to. She changes constantly. Sometimes he wishes that the narrator would shut the hell up, leave some lines blurry, and allow him to imagine the delicateness of her features, the small rolls of her bosom. He often thinks about how he would write her, what features he would accentuate.
The Narrator
“He hears his wife calling from the kitchen, ‘Joe, get up! You’re gonna be late for work.’ He laughs a hollow laugh and then makes his way to the bathroom. A shower and a shave, the newspaper while on the can. Feeling fresh, but unenthused, he leaves the bathroom to find his suit laid out on the bed next to a freshly ironed shirt and tie. He puts these on and goes into the kitchen where his wife Sheila has a plate of bacon and eggs waiting for him.”
Take five.
This is a bad gig, I’ve had much better. I remember the elegant verses that Shakespeare wrote for me and the beautifully intricate descriptions that Calvino bid me to utter. My life as a narrator has been long and plentiful, but I feel like most stories I’ve done lately are far from my best work. What can I do though; I have to go with what’s written. These should be my golden years but lately all I have been doing is following this loser Joe around describing his meaningless existence. This is the last time I ever listen to my agent. War and Peace seems like a breeze when compared to a page of this droll writing. To think the author has already spent a month trying to start this story. His thoughts are scrambled; he is trying to write a story that really shouldn’t be written. He has never been married and he has never lost a job. He should really stick with what he knows. This story will go no where, stop watching right now, trust me, I am omniscient.
The Conflict
This has been a much needed break. Hold on a second; “Sir, another drink please.” My friends Plot and Theme always said that I should visit the islands, meander a bit, and relax my strained muscles. I haven’t drunk this heavily since my time with Hemmingway. Now that’s a man that can hold his liquor and turn out some pretty damn good writing. Hemmingway and I were good friends; I was with him until the end. He’d spend days and nights, whole years of his life in my club. All of the great writers have frequented Club Conflict. Lately, though, the bars patron’s have been growing older and thinning out. There aren’t too many fresh faces to fill their ranks. There has been more of swelling, though, since Bush took office.
Under Black Ink
The reader
The story begins with the main character walking through a door. The narrator, third person omniscient—the voice of a man (maybe because you are sexist)—begins to narrate. You find through him that this man has been depressed, that his name is Joe. At first the name Joe seems weak, lazy almost. The narrator explains that this man is a Joe. You think he could have been a Charlie or Bob as well. He sits down and begins to drink a cup of coffee. You think Joe. His wife enters the room. The author spends several paragraphs describing her features. You close your eyes, the image of your sixth grade teacher, enters your mind. She begins to talk to Joe; the narrator explains that she is always happy, quite the opposite of Joe (and your sixth grade teacher). She begins to make breakfast.
You think about skipping this story and moving on to the next one, you are familiar with the author and are interested with what his story is about. The current author’s style is loose; he often dips into long winded descriptions trying to bring more layers to his flat story. It is only the first page and you are already becoming bored of reading.
The character
Joe feels trapped on the page; ever since he was brought to life through the coupling of ink and paper, he has felt that he has no control over his destiny. He looks at his wife and feels love, back space, feels loathing. Every sentence that passes changes him, when one is erased he feels the hole it leaves. He remembers the other settings, the other beginnings. At one point he was a bum on a street corner who was taken in by a young communist named Timour. In some ways he feels like every Joe on paper. When the author finishes for the day and turns out the light in the study Joe dreams about the other stories, when being Joe still felt important. He, for the most part, has stayed the same; he is and always will be a Joe. He thinks of his wife, the woman he is forced to love and lie to. She changes constantly. Sometimes he wishes that the narrator would shut the hell up, leave some lines blurry, and allow him to imagine the delicateness of her features, the small rolls of her bosom. He often thinks about how he would write her, what features he would accentuate.
The Narrator
“He hears his wife calling from the kitchen, ‘Joe, get up! You’re gonna be late for work.’ He laughs a hollow laugh and then makes his way to the bathroom. A shower and a shave, the newspaper while on the can. Feeling fresh, but unenthused, he leaves the bathroom to find his suit laid out on the bed next to a freshly ironed shirt and tie. He puts these on and goes into the kitchen where his wife Sheila has a plate of bacon and eggs waiting for him.”
Take five.
This is a bad gig, I’ve had much better. I remember the elegant verses that Shakespeare wrote for me and the beautifully intricate descriptions that Calvino bid me to utter. My life as a narrator has been long and plentiful, but I feel like most stories I’ve done lately are far from my best work. What can I do though; I have to go with what’s written. These should be my golden years but lately all I have been doing is following this loser Joe around describing his meaningless existence. This is the last time I ever listen to my agent. War and Peace seems like a breeze when compared to a page of this droll writing. To think the author has already spent a month trying to start this story. His thoughts are scrambled; he is trying to write a story that really shouldn’t be written. He has never been married and he has never lost a job. He should really stick with what he knows. This story will go no where, stop watching right now, trust me, I am omniscient.
The Conflict
This has been a much needed break. Hold on a second; “Sir, another drink please.” My friends Plot and Theme always said that I should visit the islands, meander a bit, and relax my strained muscles. I haven’t drunk this heavily since my time with Hemmingway. Now that’s a man that can hold his liquor and turn out some pretty damn good writing. Hemmingway and I were good friends; I was with him until the end. He’d spend days and nights, whole years of his life in my club. All of the great writers have frequented Club Conflict. Lately, though, the bars patron’s have been growing older and thinning out. There aren’t too many fresh faces to fill their ranks. There has been more of swelling, though, since Bush took office.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it
-- Omar Khayyam
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it
-- Omar Khayyam
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The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it
-- Omar Khayyam
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it
-- Omar Khayyam
(I see you're at film school......you're pretty intelligent for an American....hehehehe)
.....
But then You make me crawl
And I can't be holding on
To what You got
When all You've got is hurt
----
Underneath this smile lies everything
All my hopes and anger, pride and shame
i wish i would have played
i hope that ive been exciting
or that life can be exceptional
from prison
holding me back from writing
is a fear of sense of humor vs sincerity
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it
-- Omar Khayyam
i understand the section-titles, i think maybe just eleaborate upon the content of each...?
deconstruction is the construction of tomorrow!;)
can it be a book?...is it a kafka piece?...you know it needs 'direction'... but it already has place, so let it go where it goes is my advice..
gripping indeed.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pirandello
six characters in search of an author (or as I like to say.....six patients in search of a doctor.....hehehehe)....
or even Samuel Beckett, with whom he could be compared.....
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it
-- Omar Khayyam
"Perhaps Calvino's most famous novel, this begins with the words, "You are about to begin reading Italo Calvino's new novel, If on a winter's night a traveller." It's a novel therefore in which the reader plays a starring role. The reader gets a love interest, the Other Reader, and obstacles thrown in his way. In particular, the first story runs out after only a chapter. A pattern is quickly set up with single chapters of novels being cut off in their prime. Interspersed with these are chapters in which the reader's story, the pursuit of the end of these intriguing novels, and the pursuit of the Other Reader, is played out.
The central conceit of this novel is the quest to find a complete and coherent narrative: a quest being undertaken by the actual reader & The Reader as character, struggling to hunt down the ever-elusive Chapters. In fact Calvino does hide a short, elegant story in the book (more of a vignette, really), and with a magician's flair he hides it in plain sight in a part of the book to which most readers give cursory attention. It would not however be fair to give the trick away & spoil Calvino's masterly misdirection, nor to rob the reader of the moment of fun & astonishment when they notice or find The Story, and thus get the joke."
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it
-- Omar Khayyam